


Show Me A Hero And I'll Write You A Tragedy

by BlackHawksChild



Series: Moments [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath, F/M, Minor Character Death, NYPD AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackHawksChild/pseuds/BlackHawksChild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"... but feels nothing like a hero..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me A Hero And I'll Write You A Tragedy

Natasha sat deadly still in the corner of the dark room. There were no lights turned on, no sounds within the small apartment. The red-head could hear the traffic outside - very little because of the time of the day. The small amount of light found in the room was from the moon. She closed her eyes as she fought the dark thoughts that raced through her mind. But she was greeted by the images - the memories - from earlier in the day.

* * *

 

_Blood everywhere._

_Screams of agony._

_Fighting to live._

_Red. Red everywhere..._

* * *

 

Natasha let out a gasp, fighting back tears as she pulled her legs up against her chest, hugging them in a futile attempt to block out the fear. To stop the terror of something which hadn't happened directly to her. The twenty-five-year-old rested her forehead against her knees, praying to a God she had long since given up on to stop replaying the day's events: she couldn't keep wondering _'what_ _if_?'

* * *

 

_"Go! Go! Go!" Clint shouted, returning fire at their assailants. "I'll cover you! Go!"_

_Natasha nodded, leaning the children from the crossfire while her partner (in every sense of the word) distracted the gunmen._

_Once the children were clear, she snuck to Clint, joining him to stop the hitmen._

_"Why are they still at this?!" the red-head shouted, glancing at her brown-blonde haired partner. "They've already took out the Councilman, why take out his kid?!"_

_"Your guess is as good as mine, sweetheart!"_

* * *

 

The red-haired detective didn't bother to look up at the sound of the apartment door opening; she knew who it was.

Clint slowly entered their bedroom, finding his wife sitting quietly and deadly still in the corner of their bedroom. He walked over to the dresser unit, opening his drawer and placing his gun and badge in it. Then he checked his wife's, making sure she wasn't armed before he slowly made his way over to the red-head. Slowly, he dropped down to his knees in front of her, watching her carefully as he gently brought his hand up to cup her face.

"Hi," he whispered softly, noting the broken look in his wife's eyes. He knew today's events would have this effect on her. That they'd remind her what was like to feel like no one could keep her safe. “Have you had anything to eat? Or to drink?”

Natasha shook her head, not trusting her voice. She leaned into her husband’s touch, moving her head to look at the twenty-seven-year-old. Even in the limited light, she could still make out every one of his features; his unruly spiky brown-blonde hair, his grey-blue eyes, the square set of his jaw, the rugged line of his nose – broken four times. She knew that he was only trying to help her. But she couldn’t – how could she? – forget the day’s nightmarish events.

* * *

 

_“We need to get them somewhere safe,” Clint commented as he and Natasha returned to their witnesses. “Those thugs could be back at any minute.”_

_“Where? They have eyes and ears everywhere, Clint. You really think we have a chance at trusting anyone at the station?”_

_“I trust you,” he replied, smirking when the red-head shook her head at her husband’s smart-alec answer. She knew he trusted her. And vice versa._

_“Clint, seriously, we have a mole. There was no way the_ Bloodz _knew we were moving the kids today. Who can we trust?”_

_“No one but each other. And Phil. Remember the safe-house we set up in Hell’s Kitchen?”_

_“Yeah, why?”_

_“We can bring the kids there…..”_

* * *

 

“Tasha, come on. Let’s get something to eat. We both missed lunch,” Clint whispered, kissing Natasha’s temple softly. “Please? For me?” He hated this. Hated when she punished herself for something out of her control.

Natasha let out a deep breath and nodded. She let her husband help her onto her feet, interlacing her fingers with his and following him out into the dimly lit kitchen. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the change of brightness, the red-head blindly following her husband over to the kitchen island. She raised an eyebrow when she noticed the two bags of take-out from their favourite Thai restaurant, turning to Clint with a questioning glance.

“We missed lunch,” he replied simply, smiling when she grinned softly at him in gratitude. ‘ _That’s my girl_ ,’ he thought to himself.

“Thank you,” she murmured, pecking his lips gently; her husband always knew when she needed him.

“You’re very welcome,” he replied, resting his forehead against hers. “Come on, the food’ll get could,” he eventually whispered, pulling back so he could take their food out of the bags.

The couple ate in a reasonably comfortable silence, making small glances at each other every now and again. But they both knew they were only putting off the inevitable. So Clint decided that it would have to be him to broach the subject first.

“You know, what happened today wasn’t your fault, Tasha,” he started, watching his red-haired wife freeze at his words before releasing back into a tense position. “No one could’ve known about that sniper. No one. You can’t save everyone.”

“He. Shot. A. Child!” she hissed back at him, her normally playful green eyes now cold and distant with pain, anger and survivor’s guilt. “It was my job to protect her! And. I. Failed!” The red-head quickly stood up and walked out into the living-room, her mind reeling with the painful, torturous memories from earlier in the day.

Clint quickly followed his wife. “It was OUR job, Natasha. And we did everything we could to protect Anya. But even we can’t stop a goddamn sniper!”

* * *

 

_The sound of shattering glass was the only warning they had. The bus swerved and crashed into the corner of the closest apartment building. The twenty children screamed, terrified, as more shots rang out. Clint and Natasha quickly ordered the kids off the bus while requesting back-up._

_Suddenly, Natasha saw a flash on a neighbouring apartment building. “Everyone get down!” she shouted, firing shoots at the sniper. The twenty-five-year-old detective caught Anya as the ten-year-old girl fell to the ground, pressing her hand to the gunshot wound, trying to stem the blood flow. But the daughter of the Councilman was already gone…._

* * *

 

“I should’ve seen him quicker, Clint! But I was too slow and a little girl died because of me! I didn’t do my damn job!”

“Tasha, you’re a hero. You tried your best. You can’t save everyone, God knows you tried.”

“Then losing one person isn’t worth it, Clint! I was supposed to save all of them. Yes, we saved nineteen but I feel nothing like a hero that the media are painting us like.”

“ _Show me a hero and I’ll write you a tragedy_ ,” he quoted sadly in reply. “F Scott Fitzgerald was right. Being a hero means you don’t have get to be happy all of the thing. You’re going to have times where all you can feel or think about is the pain. No matter how hard you try to avoid it,” he whispered, cupping her face so she would look him in the eye. “You’re going to feel the pain of the burden of guilt, Tasha. But I’d be damned if I let you fight it alone!”

Natasha’s eyes slid close as she finally let the dam burst: tears of pain and guilt fell from her eyes and she let Francis wrap his arms around her, holding her close as she sobbed in anguish. She knew her husband felt guilt for Anya’s death as well. And that guilt would be a burden they’d both carry for the rest of their lives. But they’d deal with it together….


End file.
